The afternoon light across the wide horizon of suburban houses shifting gears from blue and sunny to a shadowy melancholy ridden peach color. Old music from a far distant time now almost forgotten. Its lyrical strands bringing home the immediacy of those lost times making one wonder where that usual cast of characters once known have all gone? A puff of cotton cloud slowly drifts into scene from stage left. A diaphanous dragon in its boat slowly passes. A much smaller wispy galloping steed floating keeping up just ahead. This whimsy portrayed almost like those days of childhood. Before. When love was a lasting eventuality at each day’s most logical conclusion. “Why?” Not covering the fact of feeling so similar to that elder time previous and present. Not simply one and the same! The permanent absence of familiar companionship. Erased in a short flash of animal expectation. Seeking some sign that this present tense is merely a musing made within that era long ago. A key inserted into the front door. The immediate rejoinder of its closing. The short eventuality of the sound of those keys dropping upon the counter. And the crumble of a paper sack filled almost to the brim. Echoes from the past. Ones that one expects would be welcomed. As if they had merely been absent for only a matter of an hour or two.
It seems that you lose yourself in your own drama? Quizzical! Something that you would never expect. Who in the hell are you? Some minor character ad-libbing in a much larger overly banal soap opera? Those same basic scenarios conducted from day to day. Caught in the same setting, yet seeing it from a different angle afresh. A lifetime prison sentence occasioned by you, sentence passed on you, by you! Alone. Where did the stars in the heavens disappear to? There is only your local street to contend with. It seems that you are missing something? Something called life. Inky, almost black darns its own weave spreading from horizon’s edge across. The only source of tiny lights flickering being from below melded to the grid of stets extending off into nowhere. Atrocious that this repetition of so many days lived thus far should yield so little?
A new flock of clouds presents themselves. They fly slowly past suspended as if by invisible wires from the baby blue of the approach of the Sun. The tiny specks of birds quickly cross it. Is this land naught but a mechanical disk encased within a large ornate clock somewhere. One that confounds both reason and judgment. All things scientific and subject to the rote experience of personal observation. Can anyone seeing thus consider their world as anything else but flat? Only this orb that remains indifferent and elusive above that moderates all activity needs no interpretation. Both I and everyone that I have ever known have been said to exist beneath it. A farmer of sorts keeping mental notes of his own stirrings within the province of each day’s repetitive cycle. That personal almanac. I am told all sorts of fictions. I am told all sorts of facts. What do these matter to someone that would take the time to raise their eyes to the anomalies of the passage of new weather? I am an unwitting sentinel. Things fly by my window. Time flies by me. The boundless sky is where my attention remains. This empty heart ever focused.